


The Language of Flowers

by sherlocked_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked_x/pseuds/sherlocked_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: Mycroft seduces Sherlock with flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [The Language of Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286409) by [IfTheyFitIShip (lenayuri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenayuri/pseuds/IfTheyFitIShip)



**I am your captive**

The first time Sherlock sees the bottle, a Peach Blossom is innocently propped by it, left idly on his nightstand while he was away on a case. It doesn't escape his notice that the Holmes family seal is stamped on the label, and he grabs a glass from the kitchen to enjoy his nightcap. The flower withers on his nightstand, forgotten. The bottle goes into the trash, yet the flower remains until what is left of it is a black bud on a brown stalk, dead and no longer beautiful. It still doesn't join the rest of the garbage.

**Reconciliation**

Another bottle and a Star of Bethlehem lies on his bed the second time, and Sherlock moves the flower to join the first, vibrant and dead, lying together in a picture of oppositeness. Still, the bottle comes from the Holmeses' personal cellar, and it tastes as good as he can remember, tangy but not too strong. It feels as though it was made personally for him by someone who has good judgment of what he likes. He forgets about thinking and shuts down his mind palace for the night, enjoying the bottle until the sun rose.

**Let's take a chance**

A White Violet joins the bottle a week after the second one and Sherlock brings it down to the kitchen, pausing only to leave the flower with the two others. Mrs. Hudson had cooked him a sit-down meal, complete with soup and dessert. He pours a goblet of the stuff for himself and eats slowly, the silence of the flat disturbed by only the sound of his silverware. He retires to the sitting room with the bottle and his glass and picks up his violin to think, playing a melancholic piece while facing the busy street.

**Daily Remembrance**

Nothing appears in 221B for the rest of the month, and the wilted flowers stay intact on Sherlock's bedside. He considers pressing them into a book for keepsake, but decides against it, digging out the cold cases Lestrade has left instead. Nothing interesting comes to him, and he is trapped in the flat for two weeks before a murder takes him into the city once again. When he returns, he finds a bottle and a Yellow Zinnia on the floor in front of his bedroom door. He leaves the flower with the others and drinks by the fire.

**Grant me one smile**

Mrs. Hudson brings him the bottle and the Sweet William, and leaves it in the kitchen as she departs with a soft smile. He doesn't notice it at first and continues with his experiment, his goggles with his back to the counter. It is only when he almost knocks the bottle down that he sees it, and he stops his work immediately, bringing the flower back to his room. He finishes the drink before dawn and throws it in the trash, feeling a little bit tipsy. Then, he faces the window, his robe falling open, revealing porcelain skin, and smiles.

**Danger, Beware, I am dangerous**

He finds the bottle and the Rhododendron in a back alley while he was working. His phone had alerted him with a text message that instructed him to visit the place. He pocketed the flower and drank the bottle with Lestrade while on a case, completing paperwork as they get ready to nab the suspect. The Detective Inspector assumes that Sherlock had bought it in a fit of pique, never knowing that it was given as a gift. "Could be dangerous," Lestrade tells him. "My whole life is dangerous." Sherlock answers, and that ends their discussion.

**I can't live without you**

Sherlock finds the bottle, a Primrose and an empty keepsake book waiting for him on the coffee table. He scoffs at the book and tosses it on his pillows before putting the primrose gently with the six other flowers. Five had dried up and wilted, and the aroma of dead flowers hung in the air, yet he placed the beautiful bud within its midst, just the same. It looked out of place with the dead plants, just like how he looked among the ordinary people. Only one could understand him, symbolically like how the Rhododendron kept the Primrose company.

**Am I indifferent to you?**

It was in the morgue where the flowering Dogwood and its accompanying bottle waylaid him as he was about to go back to Baker Street. It lay on the snow-covered curb, as if waiting for him, and he picked it up absently, stroking the stem of the flower before putting it in his pocket to protect it from the cold. He hailed a cab and went straight to his room, picking up the keepsake book from his pillow and began to press the flowers into it. Then, as if breathing his last word, he raised his glass like a toast. "No."

**Longing for you**

Christmas was drawing near, just three days to go, in fact, and a present had wormed its way into 221B. It was unwrapped, of course, brought by Angelo as Sherlock went to have a bite. He had not eaten in days, and was treating himself to a full meal. The chef had brought him a goblet of wine, his finest, and had given him a single Pink Camellia. He looked out of the glass wall, into the busy English street, and pressed a subconscious kiss upon the petals. The drink was gone in a moment, and Sherlock stepped out, a smirk on his face.

**I love you**

Mycroft stepped out of his car, weary from the day's work. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow fell in heaps outside where children made snowmen and snow angels. The Christmas cheer was present all over London, yet it was dark and lonely in his home. He fingered his phone for a moment, as if expecting a call, before giving up and putting it on the kitchen table. A bath and a glass of wine would serve him best. He opened the door to his bedroom and gazed in shock. There, nestled in the sheets, lay Sherlock, naked save for a red bow around his neck and Red Chrysanthemum between his teeth. "Merry Christmas, brother mine."


End file.
